B    3    3MD    Ifll 


for  a 

LITTLE 
HOUSE 


CHRISTOPHER  MORLET 


IV 


I 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 
BY  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


"He  that  high  growth  on  cedars  did  bestowy 
Gave  also  lowly  mushrumps  leave  to  grow." 

— R.  Southwell,  1562-95 


SONGS  FOR  A 
LITTLE  HOUSE 

BY 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY   GEORGE   H.  DORAN    COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES   OF  AMERICA 


Cn\ 


TO  THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

DEAR  little  house,  dear  shabby  street, 
Dear  books  and  beds  and  food  to  eat! 
How  feeble  words  are  to  express 
The  facets  of  your  tenderness. 

How  white  the  sun  comes  through  the  pane! 
In  tinkling  music  drips  the  rain! 
How  burning  bright  the  furnace  glows  ! 
What  paths  to  shovel  when  it  snows! 

O  dearly  loved  Long  Island  trains! 
O  well  remembered  joys  and  pains.  .  .  . 
How  near  the  housetops  Beauty  leans 
Along  that  little  street  in  Queens! 

Let  these  poor  rhymes  abide  for  proof 
Joy  dwells  beneath  a  humble  roof; 
Heaven  is  not  built  of  country  seats 
But  little  queer  suburban  streets! 

Albany  Avenue,  Queens,  Long  Island, 
March,  1917 


405447 


ONE  MOMENT,  PLEASE 

AT  fifty  cents  per  agate  line 
Kind  editors  will  buy  your  verse ; 
They'll  make  you  swear  that  you  resign 
All  claims,  for  better  or  for  worse. 
The  book,  dramatic,  photoplay, 
And  interplanetary  rights 
They  seize ;  but  do  not  feel  dismay — 
Their  barks   are  fiercer  than  their  bites! 

I  thank,  for  leave  to  print  these  rhymes. 
And  for  unfailing  courtesy, 
Everybody's,  New  York  Times, 
The  Outlook  and  the  Century; 
The  Boston  Transcript,  L.  H.  J ., 
The  Tribune,  Mail,  and  Evening  Post* 
The  Book  News  Monthly,  chastely  gay — 
But  Life  and  Collier's  I  thank  most. 

The  Independent  and  McClure's 
And  Argosy  have  borne  my  flights: 
Dear  scribblers,  how  this  reassures — 
Their  barks  are  fiercer  than  their  bites! 


— vn — 


CONTENTS 

SONGS  FOB  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

PAGE 

X  BAYBERRY  CANDLES 13 

SECRET  LAUGHTER 14 

><  A  CHARM  FOR  OUR  NEW  FIREPLACE 15 

Six  WEEKS  OLD 16 

THE  YOUNG  MOTHER 17 

PETER  PAN 18 

THE  5:42 19 

READING  ALOUD 21 

X  THE  MOON-SHEEP 22 

MAR  QUONG,  CHINESE  LAUNDRYMAN 23 

THE  MILKMAN 24 

IN  HONOUR  OF  TAFFY  TOPAZ 25 

THE  CEDAR  CHEST 26 

0  PRAISE  ME  NOT  THE  COUNTRY 27 

ANIMAL  CRACKERS 29 

THE  WAKEFUL  HUSBAND 30 

X  LIGHT  VERSE 32 

FULL  MOON 33 

MY  WIFE 34 

WASHING  THE  DISHES 36 

THE  FURNACE 38 

THE  CHURCH  OF  UNBENT  KNEES 39 

THE  NEW  ALTMAN  BUILDING 40 

THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  CURB 41 

MY  PIPE 43 

To  A  GRANDMOTHER 45 

A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 

1  .      .      .      1 49 

II 50 

IX — 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PEDOMETER 51 

ARS  DURA «     .  52 

O.  HENRY — APOTHECARY 53 

FOR  THE  CENTENARY  OF  KEATS'S  SONNET  (1816)     ....  54 

Two  O'CLOCK ....  55 

THE  COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 56 

THE  WEDDED  LOVER 57 

X    To  You,  REMEMBERING  THE  PAST 58 

THE  LAST  SONNET 59 

THE  WAR 

IRONY 63 

To  A  FRENCH  BABY 64 

AFTER  HEARING  GERMAN  Music 65 

IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  AVIATORS  KILLED  IN  FRANCE  66 

THE  FLAGS  ON  FIFTH  AVENUE 67 

"THEY" .].._....  68 

BALLAD  OF  FRENCH  RIVERS ."  70 

PEASANT  AND  KING 72 

TILL  TWISTON  WENT 74 

To  RUDYARD  KIPLING 76 

TOAU-BOAT 77 

KITCHENER 78 

MARCH  1915 79 

DEAD  SHIPS 80 

ENGLAND,  JULY  1913  (To  RUPERT  BROOKE) 81 

To  THE  OXFORD  MEN  IN  THE  WAR 85 

FOR  THE  PRESENT  TIME 87 

AMERICA,  1917 89 

ON  VIMY  RIDGE 90 

HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 

HAY  FEVER,  IF  RUDYARD  KIPLING  HAD  IT 93 

HAY  FEVER,  IF  AMY  LOWELL  HAD  IT 94 

HAY  FEVER,  IF  HILAIRE  BELLOC  HAD  IT       ......  96 

HAY  FEVER,  IF  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  HAD  IT 97 

HYMN  TO  THE  DAIRYMAIDS  ON  BEACON  STREET 98 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  A  SUBWAY  EXCAVATION     .     .     .     .  100 

BALLAD  OF  NEW  AMSTERDAM 101 

CASUALTY 102 

AT  THE  WOMEN'S  CLUBS 103 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CoAL-BiN 105 

MOONS  WE  SAW  AT  SEVENTEEN 107 

AT  THE  DOG  SHOW 108 

THE  OLD  SWIMMER 110 

To  ALL  MY  FRIENDS 112 

A  GRUB  STREET  RECESSIONAL    .  113 


— XI — 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


BAYBERRY  CANDLES 

DEAR  sweet,  when  dusk  comes  up  the  hill, 
The  fire  leaps  high  with  golden  prongs ; 
I  place  along  the  chimney  sill. 
The  tiny  candles  of  my  songs. 

And  though  unsteadily  they  burn, 
As  evening  shades  from  grey  to  blue 

Like  candles  they  will  surely  learn 
To  shine  more  clear,  for  love  of  you. 


—13— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


SECRET  LAUGHTER 

"I  had  a  secret  laughter." 

— Walter  de  la  Mare. 

THERE  is  a  secret  laughter 
That  often  comes  to  me, 
And  though  I  go  about  my  work 
As   humble   as    can    be, 
There   is    no   prince   or   prelate 

I  envy — no,  not  one. 
No  evil  can  befall  me — 
By  God,  I  have  a  son ! 


—14— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


A  CHARM 

For  Our  New  Fireplace, 
To  Stop  Its  Smoking 

OWOOD,  burn  bright;  O  flame,  be  quick; 
O  smoke,  draw  cleanly  up  the  flue — 
My  lady  chose  your  every  brick 
And  sets  her  dearest  hopes  on  you! 

Logs  cannot  burn,  nor  tea  be  sweet, 
Nor  white  bread  turn  to  crispy  toast, 
Until  the  charm  be  made  complete 
By  love,  to  lay  the  sooty  ghost. 

And  then,  dear  books,  dear  waiting  chairs, 

Dear  china  and  mahogany, 

Draw  close,  for  on  the  happy  stairs 

My  brown-eyed  girl  comes  down  for  tea! 


—15— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


SIX    WEEKS    OLD 

HE  is  so  small,  he  does  not  know 
The  summer  sun,  the  winter  snow; 
The  spring  that  ebbs  and  comes  again, 
All  this  is  far  beyond  his  ken. 

A  little  world  he  feels  and  sees : 
His  mother's  arms,  his  mother's  knees; 
He  hides  his  face  against  her  breast, 
And  does  not  care  to  learn  the  rest. 


—16— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    YOUNG    MOTHER 

OF  what  concern  are  wars  to  her, 
Or  treaties  broken  on  the  seas? 
Or  all  the  cruelties  of  men? 
She  has  her  baby  on  her  knees. 

In  blessed  singleness  of  heart, 

What  heed  has  she  for  nations'  wrath? 
She  sings  a  little  peaceful  hymn 

As  she  prepares  the  baby's  bath. 

As  in  a  dream,  she  hears  the  talk 
Of  mine,  torpedo,  bomb  and  gun — 

She  shudders,  but  her  thoughts  are  all 
Encradled  with  her  little  son. 


—17— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


PETER    PAN 

"The  boy  for  whom  Barrie  wrote  Peter  Pan — the 
original  of  Peter  Pan — has  died  in  battle." 

— New  York  Times. 

AND    Peter    Pan   is    dead?    not    so! 
When  mothers  turn  the  lights  down  low 
And  tuck  their  little  sons  in  bed, 
They  know  that  Peter  is  not  dead.-.  .  . 

That  little  rounded  blanket-hill ; 

Those  prayer-time  eyes,  so  deep  and  still — 

However  wise  and  great  a  man 

He  grows,  he  still  is  Peter  Pan. 

And  mothers'  ways  are  often  queer: 
They  pause  in  doorways,  just  to  hear 
A  tiny  breathing;  think  a  prayer; 
And  then  go  tiptoe  down  the  stair. 


—18— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    5:42 

LILAC,  violet,  and  rose 
Ardently  the  city  glows; 
Sunset  glory,  purely  sweet, 
Gilds  the  dreaming  byway-street, 
And,  above  the  Avenue, 
Winter  dusk  is  deepening  blue. 

(Then,  across  Long  Island  meadows, 
Darker,  darker,  grow  the  shadows: 
Patience,  little  waiting  lass! 
Laggard  minutes  slowly  pass ; 
Patience,  laughs  the  yellow  fire : 
Homeward  bound  is  heart's  desire!) 


Hark,  adown  the  canyon  street 
Flows  the  merry  tide  of  feet; 
High  the  golden  buildings  loom 
Blazing  in  the  purple  gloom; 
All  the  town  is  set  with  stars, 
Homeward  chant  the  Broadway  cars! 

—19— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

THE   5:42— (continued) 

All  down  Thirty-second  Street 
Homeward,  Homeward,  say  the  feet! 
Tramping  men,  uncouth  to  view, 
Footsore,  weary,  thrill  anew; 
Gone  the  ringing  telephones, 
Blessed  nightfall  now  atones. 
Casting  brightness  on  the  snow 
Golden  the  train  windows  go. 

Then  (how  long  it  seems)  at  last 

All  the  way  is  overpast. 

Heart  that  beats  your  muffled  drum, 

Lo,  your  venturer  is  come ! 

Wide  the  door!     Leap  high,  O  fire! 

Home  at  length  is  heart's  desire ! 

Gone  is  weariness  and  fret, 

At  the  sill  warm  lips  are  met. 

Once  again  may  be  renewed 

The   conjoined   beatitude. 


—20— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


READING   ALOUD 

ONCE  we  read  Tennyson  aloud 
In  our  great  fireside  chair ; 
Between  the  lines,  my  lips  could  touch 
Her  April-scented  hair. 

How  very  fond  I  was,  to  think 

The  printed  poems   fair, 
When  close  within  my  arms  I  held 

A  living  lyric  there! 


—21— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    MOON-SHEEP 

THE  moon  seems  like  a  docile  sheep, 
She  pastures  while  all  people  sleep; 
But  sometimes,  when  she  goes  astray, 
She  wanders  all  alone  by  day. 

Up  in  the  clear  blue  morning  air 
We  are  surprised  to  see  her  there, 
Grazing  in  her  woolly  white, 
Waiting  the  return  of  night. 

When  dusk  lets  down  the  meadow  bars 
She  greets  again  her  lambs,  the  stars ! 


—22— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


MAR  QUONG,  CHINESE  LAUNDRYMAN 

I  LIKE  the  Chinese  laundryman : 
He  smokes  a  pipe  that  bubbles, 
And  seems,  as  far  as  I  can  tell, 
A  man  with  but  few  troubles. 
He  has  much  to  do,  no  doubt, 
But  also,  much  to  think  about. 

Most  men  (for  instance  I  myself) 
Are  spending,  at  all  times, 
All  our  hard-earned  quarters, 
Our  nickels  and  our  dimes : 
With  Mar  Quong  it's  the  other  way- 
He  takes  in  small  change  every  day. 

Next  time  you  call  for  collars 
In  his  steamy  little  shop, 
Observe  how  tight  his  pigtail 
Is  coiled  and  piled  on  top. 
But  late  at  night  he  lets  it  hang 
And  thinks  of  the  Yang-tse-kiang. 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    MILKMAN 

EARLY  in  the  morning,  when  the  dawn  is  on  the 
roofs, 
You   hear   his   wheels    come   rolling,   you   hear   his 

horse's  hoofs; 
You  hear  the  bottles  clinking,  and  then  he  drives 

away: 
You  yawn  in  bed,  turn  over,  and  begin  another  day ! 

The  old-time  dairy  maids  are  dear  to  every  poet's 

heart — 

I'd  rather  be  the  dairy  man  and  drive  a  little  cart, 
And  bustle  round  the  village  in  the  early  morning 

blue. 
And  hang  my  reins  upon  a  hook,  as  I've  seen  Casey 

do. 


—24— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


IN  HONOUR  OF  TAFFY  TOPAZ 

TAFFY,  the  topaz-coloured  cat, 
Thinks  now  of  this  and  now  of  that, 
But  chiefly  of  his  meals. 
Asparagus,  and  cream,  and  fish, 
Are  objects  of  his  Freudian  wish; 
What  you  don't  give,  he  steals. 

His  gallant  heart  is  strongly  stirred 
By  clink  of  plate  or  flight  of  bird, 
He  has  a  plumy  tail; 
At  night  he  treads  on  stealthy  pad 
As  merry  as  Sir  Galahad 
A-seeking  of  the  Grail. 

His  amiable  amber  eyes 

Are  very  friendly,  very  wise; 

Like  Buddha,  grave  and  fat, 

He  sits,  regardless  of  applause, 

And  thinking,  as  he  kneads  his  paws, 

What  fun  to  be  a  cat ! 

—25— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    CEDAR    CHEST 

HER  mind  is  like  her  cedar  chest 
Wherein  in  quietness  do  rest 
The  wistful  dreamings  of  her  heart 
In  fragrant  folds  all  laid  apart. 

There,  put  away  in  sprigs  of  rhyme 
Until  her  life's  full  blossom-time, 
Flutter  (like  tremulous  little  birds) 
Her  small  and  sweet  maternal  words, 


—26— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


*p 


O  PRAISE  ME  NOT  THE  COUNTRY 

O  PRAISE   me   not   the    country— 
The  meadows  green  and  cool, 

The  solemn  glow  of  sunsets,  the  hidden  silver  pool! 
The  city  for  my  craving, 
Her  lordship  and  her  slaving, 
The  hot  stones  of  her  paving 

For  me,  a  city  fool ! 

i 

O  praise  me  not  the  leisure 
Of  gardened  country  seats, 
The  fountains  on  the  terrace  against  the  summer 

heats — 

The  city  for  my  yearning, 
My  spending  and  my  earning. 
Her  winding  ways    for   learning, 
Sing  hey  !  the  city  streets  ! 

0  praise  me  not  the  country, 
Her  sycamores  and  bees, 

1  had  my  youthful  plenty  of  sour  apple  trees! 

—27— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

O  PRAISE  ME  NOT  THE  COUNTRY— (continued) 

The  city  for  my  wooing, 
My  dreaming  and  my  doing; 
Her  beauty  for  pursuing, 
Her  deathless  mysteries. 

O  praise  me  not  the  country, 

Her  evenings  full  of  stars, 

Her  yachts  upon  the  water  with  the  wind  among 

their  spars — 
The  city  for  my  wonder, 
Her  glory  and  her  blunder, 
And  O  the  haunting  thunder 
Of  the  Elevated  cars! 


—28— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


ANIMAL  CRACKERS 

ANIMAL  crackers,  and  cocoa  to  drink, 
That  is  the  finest  of  suppers,  I  think ; 
When  I'm  grown  up  and  can  have  what  I  please 
I  think  I  shall  always  insist  upon  these. 

What  do  you  choose  when  you're  offered  a  treat? 
When  Mother  says,  "What  would  you  like  best  to 

eat?" 

Is  it  waffles  and  syrup,  or  cinnamon  toast? 
It's  cocoa  and  animals  that  /  love  most! 

The  kitchen's  the  cosiest  place  that  I  know: 
The   kettle    is    singing,    the    stove    is    aglow, 
And  there  in  the  twilight,  how  jolly   to   see 
The  cocoa  and  animals  waiting  for  me. 

Daddy  and  Mother  dine  later  in  state, 
With  Mary  to  cook  for  them,  Susan  to  wait; 
But  they  don't  have  nearly  as  much  fun  as  I 
Who  eat  in  the  kitchen  with  Nurse  standing  by; 
And  Daddy  once  said,  he  would  like  to  be  me 
Having  cocoa  and  animals  once  more  for  tea! 

—29— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    WAKEFUL    HUSBAND 

HOW  blue  the  moonlight  and  how  still  the  night. 
Silent  I  ramble  through  the  whole  dear  house 
Setting  aright  in  happy  ownership 
Whatever  may  lie  out  of  its  due  place. 
Books  in  the  living  room  I  rearrange, 
Then  in  the  dining  room  my  pewter  mugs, 
And  put  her  little  brown  nasturtium  bowl 
Where  she  can  see  it  when  she  telephones. 
Up  in  my  den  the  papers  are  a-sprawl 
And  litter  up  my  desk:  these  too  I  sort 
Thinking,  to-morrow  I  will  rise  betimes 
And  do  my  work  neglected.  .  .  .  Tiptoe  then 
I  pass  into  the  Shrine.     She  is  asleep, 
Dark  hair  across  the  moon-blanched  pillow  slip. 
Her  eyes  are  sealed  with  peace,  but  as  I  touch 
The  girlish  cheek,  her  lips  are  tremulous 
With  secret  knowing  smiles.     In  her  boudoir 
(Her  "sulking  room"  I  call  it:  did  you  know 
It  means  that?)  I  wind  up  the  tiny  clock 
And  stand  at  her  Prayer  Window  where  the  fields 
—30— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

THE  WAKEFUL  HUSBAND— (continued) 

Lie  listening  to  the  crickets  and  the  stars.  .  .  . 

Alas,  I  only  hear  the  throb  of  pain 

That  echoes  from  the  moonlit  fields  of  France. 

Into  our  kitchen,  too,  I  love  to  go, 

Straighten  the  spoons  against  our  break  of  fast, 

Share  secrets  with  our  dog,  the  drowsy-eyed, 

Surprise  the  kitten  with  some  midnight  milk. 

The  pantry  cupboard,  full  of  pleasant  things, 

Attracts  me:  there  I  love  to  place  in  line 

The  packages   of  cereals,   or  fill  up 

The  breakfast  sugar  bowl;  and  empty  out 

The  icebox  pan  into  the  singing  night. 

Then,  as  I  fixed  the  cushions  on  the  porch, 
I  wondered  whether  God,  while  wandering 
Through  his  big  house,  the  World,  householdeiwise, 
Does  also  quietly  set  things  aright, 
Gives  sleep  to  sleepless  wives  in  Germany 
And  gently  smooths  the  battlefields  of  France? 
Dear  Father  God,  the  children  in  their  play 
Have  tossed  their  toys  in   saddest  disarray — 
Wilt  Thou  not,  like  a  kindly  nurse  at  dusk, 
Pass  through  the  playroom,  make  it  neat  again? 
September,  1914. 

—31— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


LIGHT  VERSE 

AT  night  the  gas  lamps  light  our  street, 
Electric  bulbs  our  homes ; 
The  gas  is  billed  in  cubic  feet, 
Electric  light  in  ohms. 

But  one  illumination   still 

Is  brighter  far,  and  sweeter; 
It  is  not  figured  in  a  bill, 

Nor  measured  by  a  meter. 

More  bright  than  lights  that  money  buys, 

More  pleasing  to  discerners, 
The  shining  lamps  of  Helen's  eyes, 

Those  lovely  double  burners! 


—32— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


FULL    MOON 

THE  moon  is  but  a  silver  watch 
To  tell  the  time  of  night ; 
If  you  should  wake,  and  wish  to  know 
The  hour,  don't  strike  a  light. 

Just  draw  the  blind,  and  closely  scan 

Her  dial  in  the  blue: 
If  it  is  round  and  bright,  there  is 

A  deal  more  sleep  for  you. 

She  runs  without  an  error, 
Not  too  slow  nor  too  quick, 

And  better  than  alarum  clocks — 
She  doesn't  have  to  tick! 


—33— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


MY    WIFE 

PURE  as  the  moonlight,  sweet  as  midnight  air, 
Simple   as  the  primrose,   brave   and  just  and 

fair, 

Such  is  my  wife.     The  more  unworthy  I 
To  kiss  the  little  hand  of  her  by  whom  I  lie. 


New  words,  true  words,  need  I  to  make  you  Bee 
The    gallantry,     the     graciousness,     that    she    has 

brought  to  me ; 
How  humble  and  how  haughty,  how  quick  in  thought 

and  deed, 
How  loyally  she  comrades  me  in  every  time  of  need. 


To-night  she  is  not  with  me.    I  kiss  her  empty  dress. 

Here  I  kneel  beside  it,  not  ashamed  to  bless 

Each  dear  bosom-fold  of  it  that  bears  a  breath  of 

her, 
Makes  my  heart  a  house  of  pain,  and  my  eyes  a 

blur. 

—34— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

MY  WIFE— (continued) 

Here  I  kneel  beside  it,  humble  now  to  pray 
That  God  will  send  her  back  to  me  on  the  morrow 
day. 

New  words,  true  words,  only  such  could  praise 
The  blessed,  blessed  magic  of  her  dear  and  dauntless 
ways. 


—35— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


WASHING  THE  DISHES 

WHEN  we  on  simple  rations  sup 
How  easy  is  the  washing  up! 
But  heavy  feeding  complicates 
The  task  by  soiling  many  plates. 


And  though  I  grant  that  I  have  prayed 
That  we  might  find  a  serving-maid,  . 
I'd  scullion  all  my  days,  I  think, 
To  see  Her  smile  across  the  sink! 


I  wash,  She  wipes.     In  water  hot 
I  souse  each  dish  and  pan  and  pot; 
While  Taffy  mutters,  purrs,  and  begs, 
And  rubs  himself  against  my  legs. 


The  man  who  never  in  his  life 
Has  washed  the  dishes  with  his  wife 
Or  polished  up  the  silver  plate — 
He  still  is  largely  celibate. 
—36— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

WASHING   THE   DISHES— (continued) 

One  warning:  there  is  certain  ware 
That  must  be  handled  with  all  care 
The  Lord  Himself  will  give  you  up 
If  you  should  drop  a  willow  cup ! 


—37— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    FURNACE       t 

AT  night  I  opened 
The  furnace  door: 
The  warm  glow  brightened 
The  cellar  floor. 

The  fire  that  sparkled 

Blue  and  red, 
Kept  small  toes  cosy 

In  their  bed. 

As  up  the  stair 

So  late  I  stole, 
I  said  my  prayer: 

Thank  God  for  coal! 


—38— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE  CHURCH  OF  UNBENT  KNEES 

AS  I  went  by  the  church  to-day 
I  heard  the  organ  cry; 
And  goodly  folk  were  on  their  knees, 
But  I  went  striding  by. 

My  minster  hath  a  roof  more  vast : 
My  aisles  are  oak  trees  high; 

My  altar-cloth  is  on  the  hills, 
My  organ  is  the  sky. 

I  see  my  rood  upon  the  clouds, 
The  winds,  my  chanted  choir; 

My  crystal  windows,  heaven-glazed, 
Are  stained  with  sunset  fire. 

The  stars,  the  thunder,  and  the  rain, 
White  sands  and  purple  seas — 

These  are  His  pulpit  and  His  pew, 
My  God  of  Unbent  Knees ! 


—39— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    NEW    ALTMAN    BUILDING 

Madison  Avenue  and  Thirty-fourth  Street 
(January,  1914) 

FLED  is  the  glamour,  fled  the  royal  dream, 
Fled  is  the  joy.     They  work  no  more  by  night 
Deep  in  that  cave  of  dazzling  amber  light, 
In  pools  of  darkness,  under  plumes  of  steam. 
Gone  are  the  laughing  drills  that  sting  and  hiss 
Deep  in  the  ribs  of  the  metropolis. 

Gone  are  the  torches  and  the  great  red  cranes 
That  swung  their  arms  with  such  resistless  might; 
Gone  are  the  flags  and  drums  of  that  great  fight, 
No  more  they  swink  with  rocks  and  autumn  rains; 
And  only  girders,  rising  tier  on  tier, 
Give  hint  of  all  the  struggle  that  was  here. 

We  too,  mad  zealots  of  the  hardest  craft, 
Striving  to  build  a  word-house  fair  and  tall, 
Have  wept  to  see  our  dear  erections  fall; 
Have  wept — then  flung  away  our  tools,  and  laughed. 
Fled  is  the  dream,  but  working  year  by  year 
We  see  our  buildings  rising,  tier  on  tier. 
—40— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  CURB 

ON  the  curb  of  a  city  pavement, 
By  the  ash  and  garbage  cans, 
In  the  stench  and  rolling  thunder 

Of  motor  trucks  and  vans, 
There  sits  my  little  lady, 

With  brave  but  troubled  eyes, 
And  in  her  arms  a  baby 

That  cries  and  cries  and  cries. 


She  cannot  be  more  than  seven; 

But  years  go  fast  in  the  slums, 
And  hard  on  the  pains  of  winter 

The  pitiless  summer  comes. 
The  wail  of  sickly  children 

She  knows ;  she  understands 
The  pangs  of  puny  bodies, 

The  clutch  of  small  hot  hands. 

In  the  deadly  blaze  of  August, 
That  turns  men  faint  and  mad, 

—41 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  CURB— -(continued) 

She  quiets  the  peevish  urchins 
By  telling  a  dream  she  had — 

A  heaven  with  marble   counters, 
And  ice,  and  a  singing  fan; 

And  a  God  in  white,  so  friendly, 
Just  like  the  drug-store  man. 

Her  ragged  dress  is  dearer 

Than  the  perfect  robe  of  a  queen! 
Poor  little  lass,  who  knows  not 

The  blessing  of  being  clean. 
And  when  you  are  giving  millions 

To  Belgian,  Pole  and  Serb, 
Remember  my  pitiful  lady — 

Madonna  of  the  Curb! 


—42— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


MY  PIPE 

MY  PIPE  is  old 
And  caked  with  soot; 
My  wife  remarks: 
"How  can  you  put 
That  horrid  relic, 
So  unclean, 
Inside  your  mouth? 
The  nicotine 
Is  strong  enough 
To  stupefy 
A  Swedish  plumber." 
I  reply: 

"This  is  the  kind 
Of  pipe  I  like : 
I  fill  it  full 
Of  Happy  Strike, 
Or  Barking  Cat 
Or  Cabman's  Puff, 
Or  Brooklyn  Bridge 
(That  potent  stuff) 

—43— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

MY  PIPE— (continued) 

Or  Chaste  Embraces, 
Knacker's  Twist, 
Old  Honeycomb 
Or  Niggerfist. 

I  clamp  my  teeth 
Upon  its  stem — 
It  is  my  bliss, 
My  diadem. 
Whatever  Fate 
May  do  to  me, 
This  is  my  favourite 

B 
B  B. 

For  this  dear  pipe 

You  feign  to  scorn 
I  smoked  the  night 
The  boy  was  born." 


—44— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


TO  A  GRANDMOTHER 

AT  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
The  time  for  lullabies, 
My  son  lay  on  my  mother's  lap 

With  sleepy,  sleepy  eyes! 
(0  drowsy  little  marvny  boy, 
With  sleepy,  sleepy  eyes!) 

I  heard  her  sing,  and  rock  him. 

And  the  creak  of  the  swaying  chair, 
And  the  old  dear  cadence  of  the  words 
Came  softly  down  the  stair. 

And  all  the  years  had  vanished, 
All  folly,  greed,  and  stain — 

The  old,  old  song,  the  creaking  chair, 
The  dearest  arms  again ! 

(0  lucky  little  manny  boy, 
To  feel  those  arms  agavn!) 


—45— 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


i 

I  HAVE  no  hope  to  make  you  live  in  rhyme 
Or  with  your  beauty  to  enrich  the  years — • 
Enough  for  me  this  now,  this  present  time ; 
The  greater  claim  for  greater  sonneteers. 
But  O  how  covetous  I  am  of  NOW — 
Dear  human  minutes,  marred  by  human  pains — 
1  want  to  know  your  lips,  your  cheek,  your  brow, 
And  all  the  miracles  your  heart  contains. 
I  wish  to  study  all  your  changing  face, 
Your  eyes,  divinely  hurt  with  tenderness ; 
I  hope  to  win  your  dear  unstinted  grace 
For  these  blunt  rhymes  and  what  they  would  express. 
Then  may  you  say,  when  others  better  prove: — 
ft Theirs  for  their  style  I'll  read,  his  for  his  love.9' 


—49— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


WHEN  all  my  trivial  rhymes  are  blotted  out, 
Vanished  our  days,  so  precious  and  so  few, 
If  some  should  wonder  what  we  were  about 
And   what   the    little   happenings   we   knew: 
I  wish  that  they  might  know  how,  night  by  night, 
My  pencil,  heavy  in  the  sleepy  hours, 
Sought  vainly  for  some  gracious  way  to  write 
How  much  this  love  is  ours,  and  only  ours. 
How  many  evenings,  as  you  drowsed  to  sleep, 
I  read  to  you  by  tawny  candle-glow, 
And  watched  you  down  the  valley  dim  and  deep 
Where  poppies  and  the  April  flowers  grow. 
Then  knelt  beside  your  pillow  with  a  prayer, 
And  loved  the  breath  of  pansies  in  your  hair. 


—50— 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


PEDOMETER 

MY  thoughts  beat  out  in  sonnets  while  I  walk, 
And  every  evening  on  the  homeward  street 
I  find  the  rhythm  of  my  marching  feet 
Throbs  into  verses  (though  the  rhyme  may  balk.) 
I  think  the  sonneteers  were  walking  men: 
The  form  is  dour  and  rigid,  like  a  clamp, 
But  with  the  swing  of  legs  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
Of  syllables  begins  to  thud,  and  then — 
Lo!  while  you  seek  a  rhyme  for  hook  or  crook 
Vanished  your  shabby  coat,  and  you  are  kith 
To  all  great  walk-and-singers — Meredith, 
And  Shakespeare,  Wordsworth,  Keats,  and  Rupert 

Brooke ! 

Free  verse  is  poor  for  walking,  but  a  sonnet — 
O  marvellous  to  stride  and  brood  upon  it! 


—51— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


ARS    DURA 

HOW  many  evenings,  walking  soberly 
Along  our  street  all  dappled  with  rich  sun, 
I  please  myself  with  words,  and  happily 
Time  rhymes  to  footfalls,  planning  how  they  run; 
And  yet,  when  midnight  comes,  and  paper  lies 
Clean,  white,  receptive,  all  that  one  can  ask, 
Alas  for  drowsy  spirit,  weary  eyes 
And  traitor  hand  that  fails  the  well  loved  task! 

Who  ever  learned  the  sonnet's  bitter  craft 

But  he  had  put  away  his  sleep,  his  ease, 

The  wine  he  loved,  the  men  with  whom  he  laughed, 

To  brood  upon  such  thankless  tricks  as  these? 

And  yet,  such  joy  does  in  that  craft  abide 

He  greets  the  paper  as  the  groom  the  bride ! 


—52— 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


O.    HENRY— APOTHECARY 

"O.  Henry"  once  worked  in  a  drug-store  in  Greens 
boro,  N.  C. 

TIT  THERE  once  he  measured  camphor,  glycerine, 
T  V     Quinine  and  potash,  peppermint  in  bars, 
And  all  the  oils  and  essences  so  keen 
That  druggists  keep  in  rows  of  stoppered  jars — 
Now,  blender  of  strange  drugs  more  volatile, 
The  master  pharmacist  of  joy  and  pain 
Dispenses  sadness  tinctured  with  a  smile 
And  laughter  that  dissolves  in  tears  again. 

0  brave  apothecary!     You  who  knew 

What  dark  and  acid  doses  life  prefers, 

And  yet  with  friendly  face  resolved  to  brew 

These  sparkling  potions   for  your  customers — 

In  each  prescription  your  Physician  writ 

You  poured  your  rich  compassion  and  your  wit! 


—53— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


FOR  THE  CENTENARY  OF  KEATS'S 
SONNET  (1816) 

"On  First  Looking  Into  Chapman's  Homer." 

I    KNEW  a  scientist,  an  engineer, 
Student  of  tensile  strengths  and  calculus, 
A  man  who  loved  a  cantilever  truss 
And  always  wore  a  pencil  on  his  ear. 
My  friend  believed  that  poets  all  were  queer, 
And  literary  folk  ridiculous ; 

But  one  night,  when  it  chanced  that  three  of  us 
Were  reading  Keats  aloud,  he  stopped  to  hear. 

Lo,  a  new  planet  swam  into  his  ken ! 

His  eager  mind  reached  for  it  and  took  hold. 

Ten  years  are  by:  I  see  him  now  and  then, 

And  at  alumni  dinners,  if  cajoled, 

He  mumbles  gravely,  to   the   cheering  men: — 

Much  have  I  travelled  m  the  realms  of  gold. 


—54— 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


TWO   O'CLOCK 

NIGHT  after  night  goes  by:  and  clocks  still 
chime 

And  stars  are  changing  patterns  in  the  dark, 
And  watches  tick,  and  over-puissant  Time 

Benumbs  the  eager  brain.     The  dogs  that  bark, 
The  trains  that  roar  and  rattle  in  the  night, 

The  very  cats  that  prowl,  all  quiet  find 
And  leave  the  darkness  empty,  silent  quite: 
Sleep  comes  to  chloroform  the  fretting  mind. 

So  all  things  end:  and  what  is  left  at  last? 

Some  scribbled  sonnets  tossed  upon  the  floor, 
A  memory  of  easy  days  gone  past, 

A  run-down  watch,  a  pipe,  some  clothes  we  wore — 
And  in  the  darkened  room  I  lean  to  know 

How  warm  her  dreamless  breath  does  pause  and 
flow. 


—55— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE    COMMERCIAL    TRAVELLER 

AH  very  sweet!     If  news   should  come  to  you 
Some  afternoon,  while  waiting  for  our  eve, 
That  the  great  Manager  had  made  me  leave 
To  travel  on  some  territory  new; 
And  that,  whatever  homeward  winds  there  blew, 
I  could  not  touch  your  hand  again,  nor  heave 
The  logs  upon  our  hearth  and  bid  you  weave 
Some  wistful  tale  before  the  flames  that  grew.  .  .  . 

Then,  when  the  sudden  tears  had   ceased  to  blind 
Your  pansied  eyes,  I  wonder  if  you  could 
Remember  rightly,  and  forget  aright? 
Remember  just  your  lad,  uncouthly  good, 
Forgetting  when  he  failed  in  spleen  or  spite? 
Could  you  remember  him  as  always  kind? 


—56— 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


THE  WEDDED  LOVER 

I  RE  AD  in  our  old  journals  of  the  days 
When   our  first  love  was  April-sweet  and  new, 
How  fair  it  blossomed  and  deep-rooted  grew 
Despite  the  adverse  time ;  and  our  amaze 
At  moon  and  stars  and  beauty  beyond  praise 
That  burgeoned  all  about  us :  gold  and  blue 
The  heaven  arched  us  in,  and  all  we  knew 
Was  gentleness.     We  walked  on  happy  ways. 

They  said  by  now  the  path  would  be  more  steep, 

The  sunsets  paler  and  less  mild  the  air; 

Rightly  we  heeded  not:  it  was  not  true. 

We  will  not  tell  the  secret — let  it  keep. 

I  know  not  how  I  thought  those  days  so  fair 

These  being  so  much  fairer,  spent  with  you. 


—57— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


TO  YOU,  REMEMBERING  THE  PAST 

WHEN   we   were   parted,   sweet,   and   darkness 
came, 

I  used  to  strike  a  match,  and  hold  the  flame 
Before  your  picture;  and  would  breathless  mark 
The  answering  glimmer  of  the  tiny  spark 
That  brought  to  life  the  magic  of  your  eyes, 
Their  wistful  tenderness,  their  glad  surprise. 

Holding  that  mimic  torch  before  your  shrine 
I  used  to  light  your  eyes  and  make  them  mine; 
Watch  them  like  stars  set  in  a  lonely  sky, 
Whisper  my  heart  out,  yearning  for  reply ; 
Summon  your  lips  from  far  across  the  sea 
Bidding  them  live  a  twilight  hour  with  me. 

Then,  when  the  match  was  shrivelled  into  gloom, 
Lo — you  were  with  me  in  the  darkened  room. 


—58— 


A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS 


THE   LAST    SONNET 

SUPPOSE  one  knew  that  never  more  might  one 
Put  pen  to  sonnet,  well  loved  task ;  that  now 
These  fourteen  lines  were  all  he  could  allow 
To  say  his  message,  be  forever  done ; 
How  he  would  scan  the  word,  the  line,  the  rhyme, 
Intent  to  sum  in  dearly  chosen  phrase 
The  windy  trees,  the  beauty  of  his  days, 
Life's  pride  and  pathos  in  one  verse  sublime. 
How  bitter  then  would  be  regret  and  pang 
For  former  rhymes  he  dallied  to  refine, 
For  every  verse  that  was  not  c^stalline.  .  .  . 
And  if  belike  this  last  one  feebly  rang, 
Honour  and  pride  would  cast  it  to  the  floor 
Facing  the  judge  with  what  was  done  before. 


—59— 


THE  WAR 


THE  WAR 


IRONY 

Anton  Lang,  the  Christus  of  Oberammergau,  has 
not  been  called  upon  to  fight  in  the  German  army. 

NEWS  ITEM. 

SO    War   hath   still   some   ruth?    some    sense   of 
shame  ? 

The  Crown  of  Thorns  hath  reverence  even  now? 
For  when  the  summons  to  that  village  came, 
They  spared  the  Christ  of  Oberammergau. 

Enlist  the  actors  of  that  sacred  mime — 
Paul,  Peter,  Pilate — Judas  too,  I  trow; 

Spurn  Christ  of  Galilee,  but  (O  sublime!) 
Revere  the  Christ  of  Oberammergau. 

—63— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


TO  A  FRENCH  BABY 

Marcel  Gaillard,  Baby  number  6  in  Life's  fund  for 
French  war-orphans 

WHAT  unsaid  messages  arise 
Behind  your  clear  and  wondering  eyes, 

0  grave  and  tiny  citizen? 

And  who,  of  wise  and  valiant  men, 
Can  answer  those  mute  questionings? 

1  think  the  captains  and  the  kings 
Might  well  kneel  in  humility 
Before  you  on  your  mother's  knee, 
As  knelt,  beside  a  stable  door, 
Other  great  men,  long  before. 


In  you,  poor  little  lad,  one  sees 

All  children  and  all  mothers'  knees: 

All  voices  inarticulate 

That  cry  against  the  hymns  of  hate ; 

All  homes,  by  Thames  or  Rhine  or  Seine, 

Where  cradles  will  not  rock  again. 

—64— 


THE  WAR 


AFTER    HEARING   GERMAN    MUSIC 

WHAT  pang  of  beauty  is  in  all  these  songs, 
Flooding    the    heart    with    painful    bliss 

within — 

Was  this  the  folk  to  which  Von  Kluck  belongs, 
The  land  of  poison  gas  and  Zeppelin? 

Most  gifted  race  the  world  has  ever  known, 
Now  bleeding  in  the  dust  of  rank  despairs, — 

Was  it  for  this  men  builded  at  Cologne, 

Kant  wrote  at  midnight,  Schumann  dreamed  his 
airs  ? 


—65— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
AVIATORS  KILLED  IN  FRANCE 

NOT  at  their  own  dear  country's  call, 
But  answering  another  voice. 
They  gave  to  Liberty  their  all, 
Nor  faltered  in  the  choice. 


Their  young  and  ardent  hearts  were  coined 
Into  a  golden  seal  for  France; 

Above  their  graves  two  flags  are  joined; 
They  lie  beyond  mischance. 

And  we,  remembering  whence  came 
Our  Goddess  where  the  sea-tide  runs, 

Nobly  acquit  the  noble  claim 
France  has  upon  our  sons. 

Who  dies  for  France,  for  us  he  dies, 
For  all  that  gentle  is  and  fair: 

God  prosper,  in  those  shell-torn  skies, 
Our  chivalry  of  air. 

—66— 


THE  WAR 


THE  FLAGS  ON  FIFTH  AVENUE 

ABOVE  the  stately  roofs,  wind-lifted,  high, 
A  lane  of  vivid  colour  in  the  sky, 
They  ripple  cleanly,  seen  of  every  eye. 

This  is  your  flag:  none  other:  yours  alone: 
Yours  then  to  honour :  and  where  it  is  flown 
By  your  devotion  let  your  heart  be  known. 

Feeble  the  man  who  dare  not  bow  the  knee 
Before  some  symbol  greater  far  than  he — • 
This  is  no  pomp  and  no  idolatry. 

Emblem  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  strength  held  true 
By  honour,  and  by  wise  forbearance,  too — • 
God  bless  the  flags  along  the  Avenue! 


—67— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


"THEY" 

WHOSO  has  gift  of  simple  speech 
Of  measured  words  and  plain, 
To  him  be  given  it  to  teach 
The  sadness  of  Lorraine. 


She  asked  but  sun  and  rain  to  bless 

Her  blue  enfolding  hills, 
And  time,  to  heal  the  old  distress 

Of  dim-remembered  ills. 


The  fields,  the  vineyards  and  the  lathe, 

The  river,  loved  so  well — 
O  sunset  pools  and  lads  that  bathe 

Along  the  green  Moselle. 


One  whispered  word — curt,  bitter,  brief, 

Lives  now  in  black  Lorraine, 
One  word  that  sums  her  whole  of  grief — 

Dead  children,  women  slain. 
—68— 


THE  WAR 


"THEY"— (continued) 

The  cure's  blood  that  stained  the  road, 

The  village  burned  away, 
The  needless  horrors  men  abode 

Are  all  in  one  word — they. 


—69— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


BALLAD  OF  FRENCH  RIVERS 

OF  streams  that  men  take  honour  in 
The  Frenchman  looks  to  three, 
And  each  one  has  for  origin 

The  hills  of  Burgundy; 
And  each  has  known  the  quivers 
Of  blood  and  tears  and  pain — 
O  gallant  bleeding  rivers, 

The  Marne,  the  Meuse,  the  Aisne. 

Says  Marne:    "My  poplar  fringes 

Have  felt  the  Prussian  tread, 
The  blood  of  brave  men  tinges 

My  banks  with  lasting  red; 
Let  others  ask  due  credit, 

But  France  has  me  to  thank; 
Von  Kluck  himself  has  said  it : — 

I  turned  the  Boche'    flank  I" 

Says  Meuse:    "I  claim  no  winning, 

No  glory  on  the  stage, 
Save  that,  in  the  beginning 
—70— 


THE  WAR 


BALLAD   OF   FRENCH   RIVERS— (continued) 

I  strove  to  save  Liege. 
Alas  that  Frankish  rivers 

Should  share  such  shame  as  mine — 
In  spite  of  all  endeavours 

I  flow  to  join  the  Rhine!" 


Says  Aisne:   "My  silver  shallows 

Are  salter  than  the  sea, 
The  woe  of  Rheims  still  hallows 

My  endless  tragedy. 
Of  rivers  rich  in  story 

That  run  through  green  Champagne, 
In  agony  and  glory 

The  chief  am  I,  the  Aisne!" 


Now  there  are  greater  waters 

That  Frenchmen  all  hold  dear — > 
The  Rhone,  with  many  daughters, 

That  runs  so  icy  clear; 
There's  Moselle,  deep  and  winy, 

There's   Loire,   Garonne   and   Seine, 
But  O  the  valiant  tiny— 

The  Marne,  the  Meuse,  the  Aisne! 

—71— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


PEASANT  AND  KING 

What  the  Peasants  of  Europe  Are  Thinking 

YOU  who  put  faith  in  your  banks  and  brigades, 
Drank  and  ate  largely,  slept  easy  at  night, 
Hoarded  your  lyddite  and  polished  the  blades, 
Let  down  upon  us  this  blistering  blight — 
You  who  played  grandly  the  easiest  game, 
Now  can  you  shoulder  the  weight  of  the  same? 
Say,  can  you  fight? 

Here  is  the  tragedy:  losing  or  winning 

Who  profits  a  copper?     Who  garners  the  fruit? 
From  bloodiest  ending  to  futile  beginning 
Ours  is  the  blood,  and  the  sorrow  to  boot. 
Muster  your  music,  flutter  your  flags, 
Ours  are  the  hunger,  the  wounds,  and  the  rags. 
Say,  can  you  shoot? 

Down  in  the  muck  and  despair  of  the  trenches 

Comes  not  the  moment  of  bitterest  need; 
Over  the  sweat  and  the  groans  and  the  stenches 

—72— 


THE  WAR 


PEASANT  AND  KING— (continued) 

There  is  a  joy  in  the  valorous  deed — ' 
But,  lying  wounded,  what  one  forgets 

You  and  your  ribbons  and  d d  epaulettes — 

Say,  do  you  bleed? 

This  is  your  game:  it  was  none  of  our  choosing — 
We  are  the  pawns  with  whom  you  have  played. 
Yours  is  the  winning  and  ours  is  the  losing, 
But,  when  the  penalties  have  to  be  paid, 
We  who  are  left,  and  our  womenfolk,  too, 
Rulers  of  Europe,  will  settle  with  you — 

You,  and  your  trade. 
October,  1914. 


—73— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


TILL  TWISTON  WENT 

TILL  Twiston  went,  the  war  still  seemed 
A  far-off  thing:  a  nightmare  dreamed, 
Some  bruit   or   fable   half-believed, 
Too  hideous  to  be  conceived. 


His  letter  came:  the  memories  throng 
Of  days  that  made  the  friendship  strong— 
The  oar  he  won,  the  ties  he  wore, 
His  love  of  china,  fairy  lore, 
(And  flappers);  and  his  honest  eyes; 
His  stammer,  his  absurdities; 
His  marmalade,  his  bitter  beer, 
And  all  that  made  him  quaint  and  dear. 

And  though  we  muckle  have  to  do 

Yet  love  must  needs  come  breaking  through. 

And  now  and  then  the  office  hum 

Dies  like  a  mist,  .  .  .  and  there  will  come 

An  Oxford  breakfast  scene:  the  quad 

All  blue  and  grey  outside — O  God — 

—74— 


THE  WAR 


TILL  TWISTON  WENT— (continued) 

And  there  sits  Twiston  at  the  feast 
Proclaiming  he  will  be  a  priest ! 
I  see  his  eyes,  his  homely  neb — 
Ring,  telephones,  and  cut  the  web! 

And  when  it's  over,  will  there  be 

In  his  grey  house  above  the  Dee 

A  mug  to  drain?     Will  we  renew 

The  dreams  of  all  we  hoped  to  do? 

Our  Cotswold  tramps?     And  will  there  still 

Be  flappers  in  the  surf  at  Rhyl? 

O  how  I  counted  on  the  hour 

When  he  would  see  the  Woolworth  Tower, 

And  how  we  set  our  hearts  upon 

The  steep  grey  walls  of  Carcassonne ! 


—75— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


TO  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

For  His  Fiftieth  Birthday 
(December  30,  1915) 

LORD  of  our  noble  English  tongue, 
Who  boldest  seizin  of  our  speech, 
Whose  epic  Mowgli  first  did  reach 
The  valves  of  all  our  hearts  when  young^ — 

Master  of  every  grace  and  ire, 

Wide  as  the  salt-winged  fulmar  gulls 
That  circle  England's  battle  hulls, 

Your  songs  have  fanned  the  Imperial  fire. 

By  Oak  and  Ash  and  Thorns  by  all 

Old  memories  of  Sussex  sod, 

To  you  we  pile  the  altar  clod 
And  ask  a  new  Recessional. 


—76— 


THE  WAR 


TO  A  U-BOAT 

With  Apologies  to  William  Blake 

TIGER,  tiger  of  the  seas, 
King  of  scarlet  butcheries, 
What  infernal  hand  and  eye 
Planned  your  dread  machinery? 

Men  of  Hamburg,  Bremen,  Kiel, 
Watch  the  gauge  and  turn  the  wheel, 
Proud,  perhaps,  to  have  defiled 
Oceans,  to  destroy  a  child. 

With  your  thunderbolt  you  strike 
Cargo,  women,  all  alike — 
Stain  with  red  God's   clean  green   sea, 
Call  it  "naval  victor-  " 

U-boat,  U-boat,  as  you  grope 
With  your  half-blind  periscope, 
Lo,  your  hateful  trail  we  mark, 
Send  you  to  your  kin,  the  shark ! 

— 77— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


KITCHENER 

NO  man  in  England  slept,  the  night  he  died: 
The  harsh,  stern  spirit  passed  without  a  pang, 
And  freed  of  mortal  clogs  his  message  rang. 
In  every  wakeful  mind  the  challenge  cried: 
Think  not  of  me:  one  servant  less  or  more 
Means  nothing  now:  hold  fast  the  greater  thing — 
Strike  herd,  love  truth,  serve  England  and  the  King! 

Servant  of  England,  soldier  to  the  core, 
What  does  it  matter  where  his  body  fall? 
What  does  it  matter  where  they  build  the  tomb? 
Five  million  men,  from  Calais  to  Khartoum, 
These  are  his  wreath  and  his  memorial. 


—78— 


THE  WAR 


P 


MARCH  1915 

USSY  willow,  pussy  willow 
Do  you  bloom  in  Belgium  now? 


Tiny  furry  little  catkins 

Where  the  Meuse  runs  green  and  clear, 
Do  the  children  run  to  pick  you 

In  this  springtime  of  the  year? 
Do  they  stroke  you  and  caress  you 

Kiss  the  silky  balls  of  fur, 
Take  you  to  the  priest  to  bless  you 

And  pretend  to  hear  you  purr? 
Do  their  small  hot  fingers  wilt  you? 

(Sweethearts,  you  remember  how — ) 

Pussy  willow,   pussy  willow, 
Do  you  bloom  in  Belgium  now? 


—79— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


DEAD    SHIPS 

WE  are  not  sudden  haters;  but  by  dint 
Of  many  horrors  all  our  hearts  are  quick. 
We  are  not  ready  writers,  with  the  trick 
Of  rhyming  just  to  see  our  words  in  print. 
Nor  are  we  fast  forgetters :  there  remain 
Bittei   and  shameful  in  our  memory 
Old  murders  that  made  horrible  the  sea 
And  tinged  clean  water  with  a  red,  red  stain. 
Titanic:  she  went  down  for  love  of  speed; 
The  Eastland — curse  her! — just  for  dirty  greed; 
But  there  are  ships  whose  names  are  yet  more  rank. 
The  years  have  passed,  but  still  our. hearts  are  sick 
To  think  of  the  cool  cruelty  that  sank 
The  Lusitania  and  the  Arabic. 


—80— 


THE  WAR 


O 


ENGLAND,  JULY  1913 
To  Rupert  Brooke 

ENGLAND,  England  .   .  .  that  July 
How  placidly  the  days  went  by ! 


Two  years  ago  (how  long  it  seems) 

In  that  dear  England  of  my  dreams 

I  loved  and  smoked  and  laughed  amain 

And  rode  to  Cambridge  in  the  rain. 

A  careless  godlike  life  was  there! 

To  spin  the  roads  with  Shot  over, 

To  dream  while  punting  on  the  Cam, 

To  lie,  and  never  give  a  damn 

For  anything  but  comradeship 

And  books  to  read  and  ale  to  sip, 

And  shandygaff  at  every  inn 

When  The  Gorilla  rode  to  Lynn ! 

O  world  of  wheel  and  pipe  and  oar 

In  those  old  days  before  the  War. 

0  poignant  echoes  of  that  time! 

1  hear  the  Oxford  towers  chime, 

—81— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

ENGLAND,  JULY   1913— (continued) 

The  throbbing  of  those  mellow  bells 

And  all  the   sweet   old  English  smells — 

The  Deben  water,  quick  with  salt, 

The  Woodbridge  brew-house  and  the  malt ; 

The  Suffolk  villages,  serene 

With  lads  at  cricket  on  the  green, 

And  Wytham  strawberries,  so  ripe, 

And  Murray's  Mixture  in  my  pipe! 

In  those  dear  days,  in  those  dear  days, 
All  pleasant  lay  the  country  ways; 
The  echoes  of  our  stalwart  mirth 
Went  echoing  wide  around  the  earth 
And  in  an  endless  bliss  of  sun 
We  lay  and  watched  the  river  run. 
And  you  by  Cam  and  I  by  Isis 
Were  happy  with  our  own  devices. 

Ah,  can  we  ever  know  again 

Such  friends  as  were  those  chosen  men, 

Such  men  to  drink,  to  bike,  to  smoke  with, 

To  worship  with,  or  lie  and  joke  with? 

Never  again,  my  lads,  we'll  see 

The  life  we  led  at  twenty-three. 

—82— 


THE  WAR 


ENGLAND,  JULY  1913— (continued) 

Never  again,  perhaps,  shall  I 
Go  flashing  bravely  down  the  High 
To  see,  in  that  transcendent  hour, 
The   sunset  glow   on  Magdalen   Tower. 

Dear  Rupert  Brooke,  your  words  recall 

Those  endless  afternoons,  and  all 

Your  Cambridge — which  I  loved  as  one 

Who  was  her  grandson,  not  her  son. 

O  ripples  where  the  river  slacks 

In  greening  eddies  round  the  "backs"; 

Where  men  have  dreamed  such  gallant  things 

Under  the  old  stone  bridge  at  King's, 

Or  leaned  to  feed  the  silver  swans 

By  the  tennis  meads  at  John's. 

O  Granta's  water,  cold  and  fresh, 

Kissing  the  warm  and  eager  flesh 

Under  the  willow's  breathing  stir — 

The  bathing  pool  at  Grant  Chester.  .  .  . 

What  words  can  tell,  what  words  can  praise 

The  burly  savour  of  those  days ! 

Dear  singing  lad,  those  days  are  dead 
And  gone  for  aye  your  golden  head ; 

—83— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

ENGLAND,  JULY   1913— (continued) 

And  many  other  well-loved  men 

Will  never  dine  in  Hall  again. 

I  too  have  lived  remembered  hours 

In  Cambridge;  heard  the  summer  showers 

Make  music  on  old  Heffer's  pane 

While  I  was  reading  Pepys  or  Taine. 

Through  Trumpington  and  Grantchester 

I  used  to  roll  on  Shotover; 

At  Hauxton  Bridge  my  lamp  would  light 

And  sleep  in  Royston  for  the  night. 

Or  to  Five  Miles  from  Anywhere 

I  used  to  scull;  and  sit  and  swear 

While  wasps  attacked  my  bread  and  jam 

Those  summer  evenings  on  the  Cam. 

(O  crispy  English  cottage-loaves 

Baked  in  ovens,  not  in  stoves! 

O  white  unsalted  English  butter 

O  satisfaction  none  can  utter!)   .  .  . 

To  think  that  while  those  joys  I  knew 
In  Cambridge,  I  did  not  know  you. 
July  1915. 


—84— 


THE  WAR 


TO  THE  OXFORD  MEN  IN  THE  WAR 

OFTEN,  on  afternoons  grey  and  sombre, 
When  clouds  lie  low  and  dark  with  rain, 
A  random  bell  strikes  a  chord  familiar 
And  I  hear  the  Oxford  chimes  again. 
Never  I  see  a  swift  stream  running 
Cold  and  full  from  shore  to  shore, 
But  I  think  of  Isis,  and  remember 
The  leaping  boat  and  the  throbbing  oar. 

O  my  brothers,  my  more  than  brothers — 
Lost  and  gone  are  those  days  indeed: 
Where  are  the  bells,  the  gowns,  the  voices, 
All  that  made  us  one  blood  and  breed? 
Gone — and  in  many  an  unknown  pitfall 
You  have  swinked,  and  died  like  men — 
And  here  I  sit  in  a  quiet  chamber 
Writing  on  paper  with  a  pen. 

O  my  brothers,  my  more  than  brothers — 
Big,  intolerant,  gallant  boys! 

—85— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

TO  THE  OXFORD  MEN  IN  THE  WAR— (contin'd) 

Going  to  war  as  into  a  boatrace, 
Full  of  laughter  and  fond  of  noise! 
I   can  imagine  your  smile:  how  eager, 
Nervous   for  the  suspense   to  be  done — 
And  I  remember  the  Iffley  meadows, 
The  crew  alert  for  the  starting  gun. 

Old  grey  city,  O  dear  grey  city, 

How  young  we  were,  and  how  close  to  Truth ! 

We  envied  no  one,  we  hated  no  one, 

All  was  magical  to  our  youth. 

Still,  in  the  hall  of  the  Triple  Roses, 

The  cannel  casts  its  ruddy  span, 

And  still  the  garden  gate  discloses 

The  message  Manners  Mdkyih  Man. 

Then  I  recall  that  an  Oxford  college, 
Setting  a  stone  for  those  who  have  died, 
Nobly  remembered  all  her  children — 
Even  those  on  the  German  side. 
That  was  Oxford!  and  that  was  England! 
Fight  your  enemy,  fight  him  square; 
But  in  justice,  honour,  and  pity 
Even  the  enemy  has  his  share. 

November  1916. 
—86— 


THE  WAR 


FOR  THE  PRESENT  TIME 

"If  the  trumpet  speak  with  an  uncertain  sound, 
Who  shall  prepare  himself  for  the  battle?" 

IN  all  this  time  of  agony 
How  does  this  mighty  nation  drift: 
Our  blood  is  red  upon  the  sea, 
The  foe  is  merciless  and  swift. 
We  doubt,  we  sway, 
And  day  by  day 

Our  hearts  are  thicker  with  distrust.  .  .  . 
We  would,  should,  could,  can,  may — we  must! 


So  many  divers  voices  call, 

And  cloud  our  souls  with  dull  dismay: 
O  when  shall  cry,  clear  over  all, 
The  Voice  that  none  can  disobey? 
My  country,  speak! 
In  no  oblique 

Uncertain  tone;  be  this  our  cry: 
If  Honour  is  not  ours,  we  die. 

—87— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

FOR    THE    PRESENT    TIME— (continued) 

My  country,  speak !     They  lie  who  say 

That  we  are  soft  with  love  of  home; 
For  still,  in  all  the  ancient  way, 

Our  ships  shall  kiss  the  perilled  foam. 
Yea,  slow  to  wrath, 
But  lo,  our  path 

Leads  straight  at  last,  and  blithe  to  tread 
We  shall  live  better,  having  bled. 
March  1917. 


—88— 


THE  WAR 


AMERICA,   1917 

DYNAMO  of  strength  uncurbed, 
Boundless  might,  undisciplined; 
Energies  still  undisturbed, 
Power,  unharnessed  as  the  wind — 

Huge,  inchoate  commonweal, 
Lo,  at  last  we  catch  the  thrill: 
Now  we  found  and  forge  the  steel, 
Scoop  a  channel  for  the  will. 

Here  we  stand;  and  destiny 

Now  admits  us  no  retreat: 

Hearts   are  braced  from  sea  to   sea, 

Hark!    I  hear  the  marching  feet! 

Hills  are  moved;  streams  faster  run; 
Plumper  kernels  fill  the  wheat, 
Now  we  dream  and  do  as  one.  .  .  « 
Hark!    I  hear  the  marching  feet! 
March  1917. 

—89— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


ON  VIMY  RIDGE 

"The  Stars  and  Stripes  went  into  battle  at  Vimy 
Ridge  on  the  bayonet  of  a  young  Texan,  fighting 
with  a  Canadian  regiment." — News  item. 

ON  Vimy  Ridge  the  Flag  renewed 
Her  youth:  the  thunder  of  the  guns 
Recalled  the  crimson  plenitude 
Shed  by  her  ancient  sons. 

Once  more  her  white  and  scarlet  bands 
Were  new-baptized  with  battle  sweat: 

She  felt  the  clutch  of  desperate  hands, 
The  push  of  bayonet. 

Across  that  bloody  snarl  of  wire 

Her   colors    blossomed    clean    as    flame: 

The  Bride   of  Glory,  in  desire 
To  meet  her  groom  she  came. 

The  lightning  in  her  folds  she  kept, 

The  sky,  the  stars,  the  dew- 
Impassioned,  in  her  youth  she  swept 

On  Vimy,  born  anew ! 

—90— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY 
POLLEN 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY 
POLLEN 


HAY   FEVER 
If  Rudyard  Kipling  Had  It 

IF  you  can  face  a  ragweed  without  sneezing 
And  walk  undaunted  past  a  stack  of  hay ; 
If  you  can  find  a  field  of  daisies  pleasing, 

And  not  require  ten  handkerchiefs  a  day; 
If  you  can  stroll  in  meadowland  and  orchard 

And  greet  the  goldenrod  with  gay  surprise, 
And  not  be  most  abominably  tortured 

By  swollen  nose  and  bloodshot,  flaming  eyes ; 
If  you  can  go  on  sneezing  like  a  geyser 

And  never  utter  one  unmeasured  curse; 
If  you  can  squeeze  the  useless  atomiser 

Nor  look  with  envy  on  each  passing  hearse; 
If  you  can  still  be  merry  in  September, 

And  not  lay  plans  to  drown  yourself  in  drink, 
Then  your  career  is  something  to  remember, 

And  you  deserve  an  Iron  Cross,  I  think! 
—93— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


HAY   FEVER 
If  Amy  Lowell  Had  It . 

FAR  away 
In  the  third-floor-back  of  my  skull 

I  feel  a  light,  airy,  prurient,  menacing  tickling, 

Dainty  as  the  pattering  toes  of  nautch  girls 

On  a  polished  cabaret  floor. 

Suddenly, 

With  a  crescendo  like  an  approaching  ex 
press  train, 

The  fury  bursts  upon  me.  .  .  . 

My   brain  explodes. 

Pinwheels  of  violet  fire 

Whirl  and  spin  before  my  bloodshot  eyes — 

Violet,  puce,  ochre,  nacre,  euchre  ...  all 
the  other 

Colours, 

Including  jade,  umber  and  sienna. 

My  ears  ring,  my  soul  reels. 

—94— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 

HAY  FEVER  IF  AMY  LOWELL  HAD  IT—  (cont'd) 

I  tingle  with  agony. 
Who  invented  goldenrod? 
I  wish  I  were  dead. 
Aaaaaaarrrrrrhhhaashoooo ! 


—95— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


HAY   FEVER 

If  Hilaire  Belloc  Had  It 

WITH  this  handkerchief  and  this  nose 
Seven  million  separate  blows 
Neighed  I,  brayed  I,  sobbed  I,  blew  I, 
Snorted  I,  wept  I,  mopped  I,  crew  I, 
Tickled  I,  prickled  I,  groaned  and  moaned  I, 
And  for  all  my  sins  atoned  I; 
Raged  I,  sniffled  I,  and  exploded, 
And  a  speedy  death  foreboded, 
Swayed  I,  prayed  I,  shook  I,  shouted  I, 
To  expensive  doctors  touted  I, 
Gobbled  I,  hobbled  I,  atomised  I, 
Cursed  I  and  philosophised  I, 
Worked  I,  shirked  I,  lay  and  lurked  I, 
And  in  horrid  spasms  jerked  I, 
Camphored,  menthol'd,  and  cold  creamed  I 
And  asthmatic  nightmares  dreamed  I, 
Those  who  hate  me  highly  pleased  I, 
And — I'll  not  conceal  it — 
SNEEZED  I! 

-96— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 


HAY   FEVER 
If  Edgar  Lee  Masters  Had  It 

ED  GRIMES  always  did  hate  me 
Because  I  wrote  better  poetry  than  he  did. 
In  the  hay  fever  season  I  used  to  walk 
Along  the  river  bank,  to  keep  as  far  as  possible 
Away  from  pollen. 

One  day  Ed  and  his  brother  crept  up  behind  me 
While  I  was  writing  a  sonnet, 
Tied  my  hands  and  feet, 
And  carried  me  into  a  hayfield  and  left  me. 
I  sneezed  myself  to  death. 

At  the  funeral  the  church  was  full  of  goldenrod, 
And  I  think  it  must  have  been  Ed 
Who  sowed  that  ragweed  all  round  my  grave. 


—97— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


HYMN  TO  THE  DAIRYMAIDS 
ON  BEACON  STREET 

SWEETLY  solemn  see  them  stand, 
Spinning  churns  on  either  hand, 
Neatly  capped  and  aproned  white — 
Airy   fairy   dairy   sight! 
Jersey  priestesses  they  seem 
Miracleing  milk  to  cream. 

Cream  solidifies  to  cheese 

By  Pasteural  mysteries, 

And  they  give,  within  their  shrine, 

Their  communion  in  kine. 

Incantations  pure  they  mutter 
O'er  the  golden  minted  butter 
And  (no  layman  hand  can  pen  it) 
See  them  gloat  above  their  rennet! 

By  that  hillside  window  pane 
Rugged  teamsters  draw  the  rein, 
Doff  the  battered  hat  and  bow 
To  these  acolytes  of  cow. 
—98— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 

HYMN    TO    THE    DAIRYMAIDS    OF    BEACON 

STREET— (continued) 

Genuflect,  ye  passersby! 
Muse  upon  their  ritual  high — 
Milk  to  cream,  yea,  cream  to  cheese 
White  lacteal  mysteries! 
Let  adorers  sing  the  word 
Of  the  smoothly  flowing  curd. 
Yea,  we  sing  with  bells  and  fife 
This  is  the  Whey,  this  is  the  Life! 


—99— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  A  SUBWAY 
EXCAVATION 

ML'CH  have  I  travelled,  a  commuter  bold, 
And  many  goodly  excavations  seen; 

Round  many  miles  of  planking  have  I  been 
Which  wops  in  fealty  to  contractors  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

Where  dynamite  had  swept  the  traffic  clean, 

And  every  passer-by  must  duck  his  bean 
Or  flying  rocks  would  lay  him  stiff  and  cold. 
As  I  was  crossing  Broadway,  with  surprise 

I  held  my  breath  and  improvised  a  prayer: 
I  saw  the  solid  street  before  me  rise 

And  men  and  trolleys  leap  into  the  air. 
I  gazed  into  the  pit  with  doubtful  eyes, 

Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Herald  Square. 


—100— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERACY, POLLEN 


BALLAD  OF  NEW  AMSTERDAM 

THERE   are   no   bowls   on  Bowling  Green, 
No  maids  in  Maiden  lane; 
The  river  path  to  Greenwich 

Xo  longer  doth  remain. 
Xo  longer  in  the  Bouwerie 
Stands  Peter  Stuyvesant  his  tree! 

And  yet  the  Dutchmen  built  their  dorp 

With  sturdy  wit  and  will: 
In  Xassau  street  their  spectral  feet 

Are  heard  to  echo  still. 
In  many  places  sure  I  am 
Xew  York  is  still  Xieuw  Amsterdam. 

Sometimes  at  night  in  Bowling  Green 

There  comes  a  rumbling  sound, 
Which  literal  minds  are  wont  to  think 

The  Subway.     But  I  found 
That  still  the  Dutchmen  ease  their  souls 
By  playing  ghostly  games  of  bowls! 

—101— 


SON-OS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


CASUALTY 

A  WELL-sharp'd  pencil  leads  one  on  to  write: 
When  guns  are  cocked,  the  shot  is  guaranteed ; 
The  primed  occasion  puts  the  deed  in  sight: 
Who  steals  a  book  who  knows  not  how  to  read? 

Seeing  a  pulpit,  who  can  silence  keep? 
A  maid,  who  would  not  dream  her  ta'en  to  wife? 
Men  looking  down  from  some  sheer  dizzy  steep 
Have  (quite  impromptu)  leapt,  and  ended  life. 


—102— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 


AT  THE   WOMEN'S   CLUBS 

A  representation  of  what  happens  when  Mr.  Dunraven  Dulcet, 
the  gifted  poet,  reads  some  of  his  verses  to  an  audience  of  two 
hundred  ladies  and  one  man.  After  Mr.  Dulcet  has  been  intro 
duced,  and  after  he  has  expressed  his  mortification  (or  is  it 
gratification?)  at  Madam  Chairman's  kind  remarks,  he  proceeds 
as  follows.  The  comments  of  his  audience  are  indicated  in 
italics. 


R 


OMANCE  abides  in  humble  things: — 
How  commonplace  the  precious  ore! 
The  shining  vision  sometimes  springs 
The  one  man: 

From  too  much  cheese  the  night  before! 

The  man  who  seeks  the  True  Romance 
Among  the   high   aristocrats, 
Forgets  the  crowning  circumstance 
Mrs.  Smith: 

My  dear,  he  wears  the  sweetest  spats! 

Some  little  gutter-dabbling  child, 
Some  shabby  clerk  whom  all  despise — 
On  him  Olympus  may  have  smiled 

—103— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

AT  THE  WOMEN'S  CLUBS— (continued) 

Mrs.  Brown: 

He  has  those  dark  romantic  eyes! 

Some  shimmer  from  the  lustred  dawn 
Of  hitherto  unguessed  to-morrows, 
Imperishable  laurels  drawn 
Mrs.  Jones: 

I  think  he  must  have  secret  sorrows! 

Immeasurable  arcs  of  sky, 
Vast  spaces  where  the  great  winds  shout, 
His  eye  must  pierce,  his  hand  must  try.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Robimon: 

Too  bad  that  he  is  growing  stout! 

His  heart  is  like  a  parchment  scroll 
Whereon  the  beautiful,  the  true, 
Are  registered;  and  in  his  soul 
Mrs.  Smith: 

I  do  love  poetry,  don't  you? 

Romance  abides  in  humble  things, 
And  humble  people  understand 
That  feathers  from  an  angel's  wings 
Mrs.  Brown: 

I  must  just  go  and  shake  his  hand! 
—104— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  COAL-BIN 


furnace  tolls  the  knell  of  falling  steam, 
A     The  coal  supply  is  virtually  done, 
And  at  this  price,  indeed  it  does  not  seem 
As  though  we  could  afford  another  ton. 

Now  fades  the  glossy,  cherished  anthracite; 

The  radiators  lose  their  temperature: 
How  ill  avail,  on  such  a  frosty  night, 

The  "short  and  simple  flannels  of  the  poor." 


Though  in  the  ice-box,  fresh  and  newly  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  omelet  sleep, 

No  eggs  for  breakfast  till  the  bill  is  paid: 
We  cannot  cook  again  till  coal  is  cheap. 


Can  Morris-chair  or  papier-mache  bust 
Revivify  the  failing  pressure-gauge? 

Chop  up  the  grand  piano  if  you  must, 
And  burn  the  East  Aurora  parrot-cage! 

—105— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  COAL-BIN- 

(continued) 

Full  many  a  can  of  purest  kerosene 

The  dark  unfathomed  tanks  of  Standard  Oil 

Shall  furnish  me,  and  with  their  aid  I  mean 
To  bring  my  morning  coffee  to  a  boil. 

The  village  collier  (flinty-hearted  beast) 
Who  tried  to  hold  me  up  in  such  a  pinch 

May  soon  be  numbered  with  the  dear  deceased: 
I  give  him  to  the  mercy  of  Judge  Lynch. 


—106— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 


MOONS  WE  SAW  AT  SEVENTEEN 

AUGUST  casts  her  burning  spell: 
One  vast  sapphire  is  the  sky ; 
Woods  still  have  their  musky  smell, 
By  the  pool  the  dragon  fly 
Like  a  jewelled  scarf-pin  glows. 
Doris,  Vera,  and  Kathleen — 
Where  are  they?  and  where  are  those 
Moons  we  saw  at  seventeen? 

Bright  as  amber,  and  as  round 
As  a  new  engagement  ring — 
(So  we  murmured,  gently  bound 
To  some  flapper's  leading  string.) 
Sweet  and  witless  repartee: 
Perilous  canoes  careen — 
Telescopes  would  split,  to  see 
MOONS  we  saw  at  seventeen! 


—107— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


AT  THE  DOG  SHOW 

To  an  Irish  Wolf  Hound 

LONG   and   grey   and   gaunt   he  lies, 
A  Lincoln  among  dogs ;  his  eyes, 
Deep  and  clear  of  sight,  appraise 
The  meaningless  and  shuffling  ways 
Of  human  folk  that  stop  to  stare. 
One  witless  woman  seeing  there 
How  tired,  how  contemptuous 
He  is  of  all  the  smell  and  fuss 
Asks   him,   "Poor   fellow,   are   you   sick?' 


Yea,  sick,  and  weary  to  the  quick 
Of  heat  and  noise  from  dawn  to  dark. 
He  will  not  even  stoop  to  bark 
His  protest,  like  the  lesser  bred. 
Would  he  might  know,  one  gazer  read 
The  wistful  longing  in  his  face, 
The  thirst  for  wind  and  open  space 
And  stretch  of  limbs  to  him  begrudged. 
—108— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 

AT  THE  DOG  SHOW— (continued) 

There  came  a  little,  dapper,  fat 
And  bustling  man,  with  cane  and  spat 
And  pearl-grey  vest  and  derby  hat — 
Such  were  the  judger  and  the  judged! 


—109 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


THE  OLD  SWIMMER 

I  OFTEN  wander  on  the  beach 
Where  once,  so  brown  of  limb, 
The  biting  air,  the   roaring  surf 
Summoned  me  to  swim. 


I  see  my  old  abundant  youth 
Where  combers  lean  and  spill, 
And  though  I  taste  the  foam  no  more 
Other  swimmers  will. 


Oh,  good  exultant  strength  to  meet 
The  arching  wall  of  green, 
To  break  the  crystal,  swirl,  emerge 
Dripping,  taut,  and   clean. 


To  climb  the  moving  hilly  blue, 

To  dive  in  ecstasy 

And  feel  the  salty  chill  embrace 

Arm  and  rib  and  knee. 

—110— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 

THE  OLD  SWIMMER— (continued) 

What  brave   and  vanished  laughter  then 
And  tingling  thighs  to  run, 
What  warm  and  comfortable  sands 
Dreaming  in  the  sun. 

The  crumbling  water  spreads  in  snow, 
The  surf  is  hissing  still, 
And  though  I  kiss  the  salt  no  more 
Other  swimmers  will. 


—Ill— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 


TO  ALL  MY  FRIENDS 

"There's   nothing  worth  the   wear   of  winning 
But  laughter  and  the  love  of  friends." 

— Hilaire  Belloc. 

IF  those  who  have  been  kind  to  me 
Should  ever  chance  these  rhymes  to  see ; 
Then  let  them  know,  upon  the  spot, 
Their  kindnesses  are  not  forgot! 

If  any  worthy  task  was  done, 
The  acts  were  never  mine,  not  one: 
For  parent,  teacher,  wife  or  friend 
Inspired  the  will,  foresaw  the  end. 

What  sorrows  do  our  friends  avert! 
How  loyal,  far  beyond  desert! 
And  yet  how  churlish,  dumb  and  crude 
Are  all  our  words  of  gratitude. 

Then  O  remember,  you  and  you, 
My  old  familiars,  leal  and  true — • 
The  love  that  bonded  you  and  me 
Is  not  forgot,  will  never  be! 

—112— 


HAY  FEVER,  AND  OTHER  LITERARY  POLLEN 


A  GRUB  STREET  RECESSIONAL 

O  NOBLE   gracious  English  tongue 
Whose  fibres  we  so  sadly  twist, 
For  caitiff  measures  he  has  sung 
Have  pardon  on  the  journalist. 

For  mumbled  metre,  leaden  pun, 
For  slipshod  rhyme,  and  lazy  word, 
Have  pity  on  this  graceless  one — 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  servant,  Lord! 


The  metaphors  and  tropes  depart, 
Our  little  clippings  fade  and  bleach: 
There  is  no  virtue  and  no  art 
Save  in  straightforward  Saxon  speech. 


Yet  not  in  ignorance  or  spite, 
Nor  with  Thy  noble  past  forgot 
We  sinned:  indeed  we  had  to  write 
To  keep  a  fire  beneath  the  pot. 

—113— 


SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

A  GRUB  STREET  RECESSIONAL— (continued) 

Then  grant  that  in  the  coming  time, 
With  inky  hand  and  polished  sleeve, 
In  lucid  prose  or  honest  rhyme 
Some  worthy  task  we  may  achieve — ' 

Some  pinnacled  and  marbled  phrase, 
Some  lyric,  breaking  like  the  sea, 
That  we  may  learn,  not  hoping  praise, 
The  gift  of  Thy  simplicity. 


—114— 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL.  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $!.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OCT   5    1933 


OCT    6    1933 


IOJBB 


-MOV  2& 


_;__ 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


405447 


* 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


